Stranger
by Wolfish Oro
Summary: -And ance it fell upon a day/ That wae did me betide... - Robert Burns. There are stories behind the songs and ballads, tales of caution, of adventure, of triumph and failure, of meddling in a world just beyond our reach...
1. Yew and Rosethorns I

_Stranger

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_Yew and Rosethorns

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Sarah believed many of the stories the elders told around the dinner table, so she paused when she saw Merlin, her great, shaggy foal, disappear into the woods. The young grey Fell pony had jerked suddenly away from her, startling Sarah out of her daydreams. With a frown, Sarah remembered all the dire warnings she'd heard, tales cautioning against ever entering the woods alone.

_Once I get Merlin back, I won't be alone, will I?_ she thought, rather sensibly. _Silly colt…_

With that in mind, Sarah stepped briskly into the tree line, pausing only a moment to retrieve the horse blanket that had fallen from Merlin's back. She slung the still-warm wool over her own shoulder, partially for convenience and partially to ward off the chill encroaching despite her fine grey cloak.

The trees rapidly grew thicker and closer together and little light filtered through the leafy canopy, but Merlin left deep hoof prints in the soft, loamy soil, so she easily followed him north. From the space between the prints, it seemed the colt had slowed to a walk; given her own long stride, Sarah hoped she'd catch up with him shortly. Merlin veered north-west to walk along a riverbank for a mile before turning back into the woods to lay down a small clearing, where Sarah finally found him.

"Merlin, you've less horse sense than Toby, and you're the horse! Honestly, colt, you're almost more trouble—" Sarah stopped talking as she looked about the clearing Merlin had led her to. Thick bushes and vines formed a semi-circular wall and marked a path deeper into the trees, but most spectacularly, an abundance of wild roses flourished amidst the brush. They tangled in the tree limbs with the vines and nestled close to the ground with the underbrush; the smallest, fully bloomed rose was the size of her thumbnail while the largest, Sarah saw, spread wider than her fingers could stretch. The color varied, too, some gold and some silver, some blushing pink and some scarlet, and even a few that appeared a dusky blue-violet ; all of them, she noticed, in awe, were semi-transparent, casting colored shadows like stained glass throughout the clearing.

Merlin nickered, breaking the spell. Sarah plopped down beside him, smoothing out the wrinkles in her green kirtle before she leaned back against the warm, sleepy pony. She sighed, content.

"This place is gorgeous, Merlin. How did you find it? Oh, look at that rose—it's silver, like your hide, with a bit of blue around the edges. Here, why don't I just…" Sarah leaned over and up, stretching her arm to reach the rose, started to pluck it when a gloved hand grabbed her wrist.

"I cannot believe," a voice growled from the forest, "that you have the audacity to take what isn't yours." The owner of the voice (and the hand, which continued holding her arm still) stepped forth from the roses and glowered down at her. He was tall, seemingly towering over her, though that might have been because she was sitting. He was dressed warmly if roughly in a linen shirt, a deer leather tunic, wool pants, a long cloak, and leather boots and gloves. Wild hair fanned out around his face, like the mane to a mythical lion. She pulled against his grip and he tightened his hold, mercilessly holding her in place.

"My father owns this land, from the far side of the mountain to the border of the neighboring clan," Sarah replied haughtily, hoping to brazen her way out of the situation. "That includes these woods. I am no thief, sir, but you appear to be trespassing. I know my father's woodsman and groundskeeper, and you are not he."

He hissed at her, revealing far-too-sharp teeth, and pulled her to her feet. "Don't test my patience," he warned her. "These roses belong to the Fey Queen, and none other may take them."

Merlin surged upwards to push at the ethereal man, spooked by the menace in his voice. Sarah laid her free hand against Merlin's cheek, attempting to soothe him, even as she jerked against the stranger's hold again.

"You stopped me before I picked the rose," she somehow managed to say through gritted teeth. "Let me go!"

Just as suddenly as he'd seized her, he released her.

"You are right, of course. I did stop you. But had I not…" Sarah waited for him to finish speaking, but he left his words trailing off, a peculiar look on his face.

"Why are you here?"

Sarah blinked at his quick demand. "I was looking for Merlin. He stopped here." As if to validate her story, Merlin nickered and tossed his head. Sarah pressed on, "I just wanted to braid one of the roses in Merlin's mane; I wouldn't have ravaged your glade."

"Not mine," he said absently, staring at her intensely, "the Fey Queen's." The sky rumbled ominously and he grabbed her hand again, pulling her from beneath the tree. "Take the path, there's a bower at the end. It'll keep you dry. This way, pony," he added, catching Merlin by his halter.

Sarah stared at the mercurial man dragging her along the tunnel of trees and bushes, vaguely feeling the increased wetness of the air that accompanied rain but well protected beneath the branches. Merlin followed him docilely, and she glared at him for a moment, mouthing the word "traitor".

"Here," the man said as they reached the end of the winding path, opening into a bower of oak and roses. The thick, leafy branches above blocked both light and rain, and Sarah tried to stop a minute to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. The strange man wouldn't hear of it, though, and tugged her hand insistently; Sarah nearly toppled over, half-blind and off-balance. "Clumsy," the man tsked, leading her to the base of the largest tree to sit on a roughly hewn bench set between the roots. He let Merlin go, so the contrary foal kept following him. Sarah blinked up at the man and her pony, both hovering over her.

"Your father owns the mortals' land," the stranger stated. "My mother owns the Fey lands here, and you would do best to remember that this is her wood. That said, I have been terribly rude, and I hope you'll accept my belated hospitality. I insist you stay until the storm passes by, but then…"

Sarah watched him warily. In the dark, she could not see the calculating gleam in his eye, nor the slightly cruel edge of his smile. "You may call me Sarah, and the pony Merlin. But what, o Fey prince, shall I call you?"

"Very good," he complimented, "you know the old lore. You may call me Jareth. Would you join me for an early supper?"

She looked up sharply. "You're right, I know the lore, and I will not eat your food… Jareth." He laughed now, the capricious, confusing creature, before he stopped to reassure her.

"These gardens are on the border, girl, and the food I have is just as mortal as the food at your hall. The water is clean and from the well," he gestured to the stone well at the far side of the bower, "the mead is from Carterhaugh, and the bread is left for me as a tithe from those I let pass by." He knelt to retrieve a bag from a hollow in a near-by tree, then returned to the bench, sat beside Sarah, and extracted a loaf of bread. Breaking off a hunk, he offered it to her. "Ladies first," he teased, and then rummaged through the bag for two wooden goblets, which he tapped the sides of. Sarah watched in amazement as water bubbled up from the center of the cups. Jareth winked at her, handing her the first one filled. "Pulled straight from the well," he murmured, "as if I drew the water up by a bucket, but faster. No food or drink will trap you here."

She took a sip, suspicious. "Why?"

"Sometimes I get lonely," he answered, "and you refuse to cower before me, unlike most people I encounter. Why don't you stay awhile here? I am well versed in Fey lore, better than any of your bards, more than enough to keep you entertained, and I want for company."

Sarah nibbled at the bread as she considered him. Thunder rumbled, as if trying to convince her, and Merlin lay down in the mossy center of the bower, obviously comfortable. She trusted the foal's ability to judge people and he seemed at ease, so Sarah nodded.

With a somewhat wicked grin, Jareth leaned back against the oak and drank deeply from his cup. "Why don't I begin," he said, "by telling you an old story, passed down through my family from my great-grandfather's time."

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The storm rumbled on long through the afternoon, ceasing some time near midnight. Sarah, for all her initial mistrust, found Jareth charismatic and intriguing company even if she wasn't quite comfortable with him yet. They'd traded tales, riddles, rhymes, and ballads until Sarah thought she might lose her voice. Merlin lay quietly, watching them almost thoughtfully, and Jareth was careful to keep her at ease as much as he could.

She no longer leaned away from him if he moved too fast, Jareth noticed, and she lingered over his name much the way he lingered over hers. She mostly ignored the small, 'coincidental' brushes of hand or shoulder; she didn't shift away when he stretched out, pressing his leg against hers. Taking these all as good signs, he knelt before her, reached out, and clasped her hand. Sarah's head whipped around to meet his grim gaze, and when she started to protest his forwardness, he shook his head.

"Sarah, I need you to listen to me now, carefully. What I will ask of you is not what you must give unto me, but I need you to listen and decide carefully.

"Your timing is… most fortuitous. The full moon rises tomorrow, Sarah, and when it does, I am put to trial for guardianship of the Wood. If I win, I am free from this service; should I lose, I am trapped here until the next trial, a wait equal to the age of the yew. If you help me," he leaned closer, "I will pass the trial, as I have not in the previous attempts. If you help me," he leaned slightly back again, "you will be in danger from the others attending the trial. Never myself, mind, for I have grown fond of you and would not harm you, but others of my kind aren't nearly so generous."

He stood, releasing her hand and backed away a step, two. She stood, concern shining in her eyes, and followed. "It starts with a morbid parade. I ride behind my judges—my own parents and siblings, Sarah!—and before the witnesses on the horse I see only on moonlit nights, for he is made of the shadows the Grey Lady casts. If you help me, you will find me at the center of this precession, astride Tuired; he is the darkest ever seen this side of Donn's realm. You will know me, though bound and shaded by magic, by my gloved right hand and bare left hand. Mind not the thorns, Sarah," he told her, "they are glamour to your ilk, and cannot hurt you. Pull me from Tuired and bring me to the fork in the river, then step in with me and wrap me in your cloak; hold tight to me the entire time and know I will not harm you."

"I will help you, Jareth," Sarah promised before he asked. He pulled her tight against him, feeling the end of his time in the wood approaching, for he'd learned Sarah was stubborn, clever, and knew her aid would free him.

"You are kind," he whispered. "We'll go now, and you can meet Tuired while I escort you back. Sarah…" Jareth took a deep breath, savoring the triumph and hope in this moment. "Let's go."

Merlin heaved to his feet and pranced over to Sarah, eager to get back to his stall in the stables. Jareth was silent as he led her out of the rose bower, through the tunnel, out of the Fey Queen's garden, and along the river. Sarah, too, walked in thoughtful silence until she heard a whispered nicker, the sound of which brought Jareth and Merlin up short. Merlin's ears twitched nervously while Jareth raised his hands to cup the air, which solidified between the gloved fingertips to become a huge, dark, finely-boned horse head, followed quickly by a neck, shoulders, a broad barrel chest, and the beginnings of the back and withers. Jareth greeted the rapidly appearing horse in a language ancient and eerie, one that raised the hair on Sarah's arms, and the great horse stepped towards Sarah, lowering his head to put his eyes at the level of her own. She noticed absently that the horse had to dip his head quite a bit to do so, due to his height.

"Sarah, this is my equine companion; you may call him Tuired." Tuired nodded slightly and pushed his nose toward Sarah; she tentatively lifted one hand and placed it against his muzzle. She blinked and realized Tuired was just as warm as Merlin; he'd formed himself of shadows and moonlight, so she'd expected him to be cool to the touch. The fine hairs around his nose and mouth felt like silk on soft leather, a mesmerizing texture that Sarah savored for a few strokes more before she remembered her manners.

"Good evening, Tuired," she whispered, feeling a little foolish but erring on the side of caution. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Then she curtsied politely. Jareth laughed, amused by the irony, but Tuired took a step back before sweeping his neck down and bending one knee, bowing with the flair of a gentleman at court. He raised and rumbled in the same language Jareth had used to greet him, but stopped when he realized she couldn't understand him. Tuired tossed his head at Jareth, and the incorrigible Fey man chuckled again.

"He said, in essence, 'likewise', and that it is his honor to carry you home. Come on, then, Sarah, I'll give you a lift up." Tuired moved to stand to her right side, his broad shoulder nearly two hands above her head. Noticing her hesitation, Tuired turned and gave her an encouraging nudge as Jareth threaded his fingers to give her a leg up. Merlin whinnied and pressed against her back; Sarah thought vaguely that the pony was jealous of the massive horse, tall as a draft but built lean like a courser. Then she was swinging her leg over Tuired's broad back, so startled by the distance to the ground that she barely noticed Jareth hoist himself up behind her. Then Tuired prodded Merlin into motion and ambled alongside the river to the edge of the wood.

Between Tuired's bare back beneath her and Jareth's chest pressed to her back, Sarah was more than comfortably warm—despite the way her kirtle had ridden up to nearly her knees—in the brisk night. Their heat and Tuired's long, ambling gait lulled Sarah into a dreamy, half-sleeping state as Merlin cantered briskly beside them and Jareth propped her upright. Far too soon, they arrived at the wall of the bailey at her father's fortress.

Lifting her and gently depositing her on her own feet, Jareth let his touch linger as he whispered, "Remember your promise."

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Oro: Alright, so this is the first of two (maybe three) parts to this story, _Yew and Rosethorns, _hopefully the first of many in this collection, _Stranger_.

Quill: If I have anything to say about it--

Oro: (interrupting) Some of you may know the general storyline; I am remorselessly nicking it from a legend. I think the stories here will all be retellings of ballads, actually, but I have some good ones up my sleeve...

Quill: You're in a sleeveless shirt--

Oro: (darts out, leaving Quill with Disclaimer) Good night!


	2. Yew and Rosethorns II

_Stranger_

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_Yew and Rosethorns_

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Yawning widely, Sarah led Merlin into the stables, vaguely noticing that he appeared to have grown. She chalked it up to their time in the Fey glen as she stumbled up towards the keep and into the hall.

This late at night—or, more accurately, this early in the morning—only a few straggling guards remained in the hall, nursing flasks and mugs of unknown but decidedly alcoholic beverages. The handful of them lounging near the dying fire blinked amiably at her and one weakly raised a glass; Sarah just as weakly raised a hand in greeting before stumbling over to the steps, intending to sneak past her father's room into her own.

A soldier, standing pertly to attention, grabbed her arm as she started to enter the family chambers. "Where do you think you're going, woman?" he hissed, trying to pull her out into the hallway even as she struggled back into the room.

"To bed; let me go! If you make a ruckus, my father—"

The soldier must have looked at her more closely—though how he could see anything by the dull torchlight was beyond Sarah—for he paled suddenly and released her. "You've been gone," he said flatly but loudly, and Sarah winced, waiting for noise from inside.

"Since this morning, I know, I missed curfew, but we don't need to let y father know that, do we?" She sidled around him, back into the room, padding silently around the main partitions to the smaller area at the far corner, walled off by free-standing tapestry screens. The guard followed her haplessly, muttering under his breath but choking over his words. By the time she reached to pull aside one of the hinged panels, he'd worked up the nerve to confront her again.

"My lady," he began, but never finished the statement. Sarah subdued a shriek as she looked at her bed—her _occupied_ bed—and the armor lying beside it.

She backed hurriedly away, in the process tripping over one of the hounds lying next to her father's screens. It let out a loud, indignant groan in complaint and the figure on her bed stirred at the noise.

"My lady," the guard tried again, but Sarah was busy watching as the man on her bed finally woke with a start and stared at her. He rose from the tangle of linen and furs, his gangly form belied by his fluid gait while he approached Sarah.

"Who are you?" she whispered fiercely. "And what are you doing in my—"

"Sarah?" The man's—youth's, she realized, maybe a boy in his mid-teens—voice cracked, though with emotion, sleep, or age, Sarah couldn't tell. "Sarah, Sarah, it's been years, where have you been, you haven't changed, oh, god, Sarah, you haven't changed!" Hands, calloused and overly large for their slender wrists, ran over her arms, her shoulders, her face and hair, before sliding behind her back to pull her to the youth into a bone-crushing hug. "I missed you so much—father's been frantic—where were you?—you can't go again, I swear you can't, you must swear you won't…" The frantic, disjointed statements fell raggedly into Sarah's ear; the teen rocked softly, back and forth, cradling her and clutching at her, unnerving Sarah until he pulled back enough for her to peer into eyes as green and familiar as her own.

"Toby?"

She barely croaked the word, but as soon as she recognized his eyes, she could see traces of his small-child's face in this transitional one: his cheekbones were the same, and the smattering of freckles across them hadn't changed, and his hair was as wildly tousled as always, though that might have been from sleep. She pulled him to her, now, shaken to the bone by what she saw.

"It's you, but it can't be, you were only eight this morning, and—"

The guard coughed uncomfortably, drawing the siblings' attention. "My lady, you've been gone for nine years."

The world fell around her ears as Toby murmured an affirmation of the guard's declaration.

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She'd fallen into a brief, entirely reasonable fit of hysteria. Losing nine years in as many hours would do that to a person, no matter what the cause—or, in Sarah's case, who.

Her shrieked "He promised! He promised!" woke her father and most of the keep; though the fit lasted only a few scarce moments, the ensuing confusion didn't die down until after dawn. Toby, seeing how close Sarah was to breaking down again, ordered the servants and soldiers out, though Margaret, Sarah's ladies' maid, wouldn't be chased out. Margaret, much like Toby, refused to let Sarah out of her sight and actually kept a hold on Sarah's sleeve, as if the wayward girl would disappear again without notice.

Her father, on the other hand, rejected her entirely.

With only the four of them in the hall, he stared at her with an even, unfaltering gaze.

"I don't know who you are, but you are not my daughter. You will leave this keep by mid-morning and you will not return afterwards. Margaret, pack a bag of food for her and fetch a gown she can change into. Toby, you will escort her to town and then return here. Am I understood?" Without waiting for an answer, her father swept out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Stuff and bother, Sarah, you aren't leaving," Margaret announced in the silence left in the lord's wake. Sarah and Toby shook their heads, though for different reasons.

"He's the lord," Toby started, even as Sarah spoke over him, "I already promised—". They both stopped and glanced at each other before grinning wryly.

"How many times have I told you, ladies first?" Toby made a face at her. Margaret tossed her hands up in exasperation.

"Who did you promise what?" Toby asked, and Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Let's sit down, it's a long story. Margaret, will you call for food and drinks, please? We can break our fast as I tell you what happened."

They sat down at the high table, though Margaret protested, and Sarah nibbled at bread and fruit as she related her travails with Merlin in the wood. She tried a few of Jareth's riddles on Toby, who loved puzzles as much as she did, and hummed a bit of his song to Margaret, who was already swooning over Sarah's 'romantic' encounter. A blushing Sarah refuted all romantic possibilities, so Margaret quieted, though she and Toby shared a knowing look. Sarah glossed over the rest after that, relating vaguely her promise to Jareth and the ride back astride Tuired, who interested Toby so much that he made Sarah describe him in detail.

When she'd finished, they sat in silence for a moment as Margaret and Toby tried to absorb all she'd said.

"You did give your word," Margaret mused reluctantly.

"Can't go back on a promise," Toby nodded.

"I wasn't going to," Sarah remarked pointedly. "And it isn't feasible to keep me in sight for the rest of my life, Margaret. Something was bound to happen eventually."

Margaret looked ready to argue, but Toby broke in, "When I take you to the town, I'll stay with you and help you with this Fey business of yours." He hadn't even finished speaking before Sarah and Margaret started shaking their heads.

"This is something I have to do alone, Toby. That's… well, that's just the way it's done." With her grim proclamation and Margaret's silent support, they finished their meal in glum silence before scattering to prepare for Sarah's departure. Margaret fled upstairs to get a fresh gown for Sarah before rushing below to the kitchens to pack a light dinner for her. Toby marched grimly back to his chambers to retrieve a knife for Sarah, which he fervently hoped she wouldn't need but was determined to foist upon her anyway.

Sarah slipped out the keep and past the smattering of houses to the stables, saddling Merlin while she waited for her brother and her friend. He, unlike Sarah, had aged when he returned to mortal land, and stood proudly at his full height, though still comically short compared to the huge, otherworldly horse he might have to chase down in the approaching night.

Buckling the girth strap and ignoring Merlin's irritated head bobbing, Sarah listened for Margaret and Toby and prayed she wouldn't have to run down Jareth and Tuired. She didn't think she and Merlin could handle that.

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Oro: This is short, but I'm already working on the last chapter. I just wanted to keep the lengths fairly consistent.

Quill:Goodness knows you can't keep the tone consistent.

Oro: ... Ignoring you~ (whistles) Anyway, I'm sure some of you recognize the storyline by now... I added things! Nyeh! Anyhow, I don't own the shtuff I don't own. Back to writing...


	3. Yew and Rosethorns III

_Stranger_

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_Yew and Rosethorns_

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The day passed with an agonizing lack of speed and an unbearable sense of exigency. Toby escorted Sarah to the village—they caught Margaret following them almost a mile from the keep and doubled back to return her to the hall—before an awkwardness settled between them. Sarah started jumping at shadows as the afternoon wore on and Toby treated her as if she were Roman glass. Discussions between them were short, uncomfortable, and full of hidden meanings, but so precious to both siblings that they tried again and again to rekindle the conversation.

At last, Toby readied himself to return home. With the dinner packed up—neither sibling could eat for the nerves that plagued them—and his horse snorting with impatience, Toby reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a small, ornately engraved dagger. He held it out to Sarah hilt-first and regarded her with sad, calm eyes.

"It's silver," he said, waiting for her to take it. "Iron would be more effective against the Fey, but you wouldn't want to hurt your woodsman. Take it, Sarah," he commanded, and when she still didn't move, he grabbed her hand and pressed the handle into her palm. Her fingers curled around the knot work encrusted hilt and Toby let go of her hand and the sheathed blade. "Take care, Sarah." She nodded, and he smiled grimly.

And with that, they parted.

Merlin, too, was of ill humor, and he fretted as Sarah trotted him out of town to the edge of the wood. She'd slipped off his bridle but refused to take off the saddle until she remembered that the buckles were iron; then she gave in and removed everything except the blanket that lay across his back. Sarah left the tack with the innkeeper with directions to sell it if she didn't return within a month.

The sky purpled with dramatic flair as the sun set; the moon, so much faster than her counterpart, hung heavy on the horizon, already rushing towards her zenith. Sarah steered Merlin off the main road and onto a deer path, following whispering voices and a hushed, droning sound that might have been pipes. She gasped when she saw the procession of Fey, but all the Other Landers she saw were on foot, and therefore had to be near the end of the parade. Sarah, torn between urgency and stealth, urged Merlin to canter parallel to the line of Fey courtiers.

Just as they drew even with the last horse in the procession, Merlin stepped on a dry twig. The sound shattered the quiet stateliness of the wood and the Fey halted. Sarah felt their eyes on her; she heard a soft, equine snort and knew Tuired had issued it. A falcon, resting on the glove of a mounted Fey man, screeched.

_Brash worked with Jareth_, Sarah reasoned. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and turned Merlin, steering him towards the dour group of Fey. Some gaped as she and Merlin stepped out into the open, into their path, while others muttered in that eerie language she'd heard Jareth and Tuired use. Merlin, of his own accord, sought out Tuired, who stood, steadfast, in the midst of a veritable herd of horses, many heavily armored. Sarah knew that Jareth rode astride Tuired, but if she hadn't, identifying him would have been nigh impossible.

Though she could discern no cape, no shroud, Jareth seemed muted and heavily shadowed. His wild, neat garb was replaced with rough robes. His golden hair seemed grey and looked snarled; Sarah could not see his eyes but imagined they, too, would be colorless. A hefty chain draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his wrists; as she and Merlin drew nearer, Sarah realized that rose vines were woven through the links of the chains. Fully transparent, fully bloomed roses tinkled as they clinked against the chain, like crystal tapping against metal. More prominent were the thorns, which, despite Jareth's prior assurances, looked very real and almost lethal. The thorns tore his skin open; hundreds of shallow cuts crossed his arms and chest. Blood, black beneath whatever glamour drained him of color, slicked his skin, letting the chains and thorns slide over his skin, exacerbating the problem.

A tall, slender woman, elegantly dressed and riding an exquisite blue roan, stepped between Sarah and Jareth before addressing Sarah. Though she still couldn't understand their Fey language, Sarah understood the impressions in the words, the sense of challenge and images of Jareth in the river. Jareth mumbled something, his voice raw, and Sarah was suddenly battered with visions of Jareth transforming in her arms, again and again while she dragged him to the river. The armored knights and their horses clinked ominously, but Jareth and the woman reprimanded them—or at least, that was the gist of their combined tirades, as far as Sarah could tell.

The woman gestured as she stepped out of Sarah's way. Warily, Sarah nudged Merlin forward to pull up beside Jareth and Tuired. Tuired heaved a fiery snort as Sarah, watching the Fey surrounding her, reached slowly for Jareth's ungloved left hand. As soon as her fingers brushed his knuckles, Jareth's right hand, gloved in coarse leather, clamped down on her hand, his grip so tight Sarah feared she'd bruise. On an instinct, an impulse, she drew the silver knife and slashed at the chain. The blade passed through the chain as if it were water; broken, the chain writhed and the roses wilted, crumbling and blackening. Tuired heaved and pitched Jareth off as the chain lashed the horse across the shoulder; Jareth held her so tightly that the motion unseated both of them.

Merlin and Tuired broke away from the procession as Sarah and Jareth fell; the wild man had enough control and sense to twist, mid-air, and ensure that he broke Sarah's fall. After that, though, he became little more than deadweight, dragging Sarah down as she tried to rise.

When she at last had her feet under her and hauled Jareth up, he shifted, his bones melting and his skin bubbling. Bile rose in her throat as she watched his thrashing flesh twist until the Fey man became a serpent, wrapped firmly around her arms. The arrow-shaped head lay sedately against her wrist, his eyes still mismatched and blue, but calmer now than she'd ever seen them. Sarah struggled against her automatic panic and began running, crashing through the underbrush towards the river.

Barely two horse lengths away from the procession, the serpent started unraveling itself, bunching against her elbow, running together and growing heavier, growing larger, growing fur. Then she was clasping the antlers of a silver-blonde stag, one that followed her tamely as she led it through the underbrush, ears flicking as it registered the faint sound of the river, far away but growing closer. They ran together for a moment before he started shrinking.

Sarah cried out sharply, panicking, when he became so small that he almost slipped between her fingers. She tried to keep her grip gentle but firm as she cradled the bat to her, stretching her legs as she sprinted towards the river. Even she could hear it when a clatter drew her gaze back. Sarah cursed, seeing the Fey knights approaching swiftly on their destriers. They were closing in on Sarah faster than she was closing in on the river.

Before she could despair, the bat swelled within her cupped hands. Sarah nearly stumbled as Jareth's weight multiplied a hundredfold, but then she was astride a tall, lean horse and could only hang on as Jareth galloped on, determined to keep Sarah safely out of the oncoming knights' reach. He reached the river but not the fork where the two rivers collided. Form her vantage point on Jareth's shoulders, Sarah could see it, upstream and less than half a furlong away. But then she was falling, tumbling down over Jareth as he shrunk and sprouted feathers. Sarah cradled him to her stomach as his bones popped and hollowed, transforming from a palomino stallion to a ghostly barn owl.

She staggered to her feet and winced when she put weight on her left leg. She must have landed on it wrong when she fell as Jareth shifted; she limped slightly as she scampered upstream but focused more on speed than comfort. Sarah replayed her conversations with Jareth, his loneliness, his sense of honor, but couldn't prevent her ankle from turning under her, giving out as Jareth shifted again. She fell on him, actually, her arms around his neck, buried in a thick, coarse mane and her torso stretched out across his back. He turned to look at her, concern marring ferocity of his latest face. Sarah smiled weakly and he grinned back, revealing teeth just as sharp as his Fey set but rather longer and more curved. Then he was stretching out his stride, loping with bounding steps toward the junction of the rivers. Sarah, holding tight with one hand, used the other to unpin the fibula clasp of her cloak, preparing to toss it around his shoulders once they reached the crossing rivers.

As luck—or Fey magic—would have it, Jareth started transforming again when she had unclasped the cloak. It fluttered off her shoulders as she lurched forward, partially from momentum and partially in an attempt to keep hold of Jareth, who has dwindling again, but more slowly. Sarah had time to get her feet under her as he became only large enough to cup in the palm of her hand. He roared in confusion, a sound that muted as he dulled to deep grey and glowing red-orange. Sarah looked on, wide-eyed, wondering what he had become until her fingers began to warm uncomfortably.

_Tricky Fey,_ she acknowledged ruefully, restraining the instinct to toss the hot coal into the river. She heard the elfin knights approaching again and hurriedly stepped into the water, grasping her cloak with her left hand, wrapping her right hand—and Jareth—in the grey wool as she waded to the center of the fork in the river. The combined currents dragged at her ankles, pushed at her knees, but she sunk her feet into the silt and river rocks, bracing herself against the current. Jareth, at last human—Fey, really—again, held her right hand and gripped her elbow to support her. Beneath the grey cloak, his clothes were black, silver, and green; the tunic and trews of a finer weave than any Sarah had seen before covered the rapidly-healing cuts. By the time the cloak settled amiably around his shoulders, his wounds had healed. Together, they turned to face the riverbank, where Merlin and Tuired pranced between their riders and the Fey who'd followed them, the knights and a host of others on horseback. Sarah was sure the unmounted Fey would be along soon but had trouble keeping up with the horses.

Tuired bellowed, his words in the Fey tongue guttural but fluid. The Fey woman acknowledged him with a regal tilt of the head before she spoke to the assembled Fey. The _impressions_ Sarah received came faster, more fluid, specific, and detailed, and she wondered if the words meant anything at all or if they were just sounds to convey images when the queen's speech became even more eloquent and Sarah herself started showing up in the pictures.

Jareth began walking towards the riverbank, towards the crowd of Fey, and pulled Sarah along with him; he lifted her over the muddy bank and set her lightly on her feet while he addressed the fair folk assembled before them. Sarah caught _kingdom_ and _Sarah _and _hand fasted_ before a cheer roared up from Jareth's audience, drowning out the rest.

Then the world shifted beneath her, the tide at the crossroadssweeping her off from Caledonia to Tir na nÓg, another mortal swept away by the Fey… another cautionary tale for the bards in her father's hall.

* * *

Oro: Damn, that last part is dense. Sorry!

Quill: I warned you! I warned you! This is what happens when you read period writing, if you'd stayed away from Dostoevsky this wouldn't be a problem!

Oro: ... Anyway, this is the last chapter for this ballad, a re-telling of Tam Lin, as many of you noticed. If you have a favorite ballad you'd like to see reworked, send me a PM or review! I probably won't get to it for a while because I have exams--

Quill: Oh, great. You'll either write a lot or nothing at all during exam week!

Oro: ... three weeks of them, really. But then I'm done with high school! So I'll have time to work on a multi-chapter humor story and any ballads, fables, etc. y'all throw my way.

(ominous rustling sound)

Oro: Oh, Quill, I do believe that's another one of those pesky disclaimers... be a dear and dispose of it, will you?


	4. The Corbies and the Doe I

_Stranger_

* * *

_The Corbies and the Doe_

_

* * *

_

A lithe doe, tawny and splattered with mud, cautiously picked her way across a blood-soaked field.

Within her mind, the doe grieved for the lives of the men that lay, haphazard, on the muddy ground. The carnage stretched as far as she could see, the dead and dying a grim, groaning stain. The doe stepped carefully, cringing when her foot landed in a puddle of blood or worse – but she refused to disrespect the dead by stepping on them, or to further injure the barely living by doing the same. She gagged on the stench of bodily fluids, entrails, the dead left to the unforgiving sun and carrion birds.

Bran and his men had come, and they'd built the Morrigan's bloody wall, and if her younger brother was among the dead, she'd – Sorcha didn't know what she'd do, actually. The accursed Welsh king's brother had broken the cauldron that reanimated the dead; she had no clue if her brother lived, or, if he did, any healer survived who could aid him. She felt sure that her brother lived, he'd be in the woods, running as a stag, but if he remained here, he'd be wounded, and human – or dead and human.

The sun set rapidly, and the carrion birds squawked at her as if to warn her away from their feast. The birds could have the rest – they could have the king Mallolwch and his foolish advisors, they could have the too-proud Evnissyen and his brother Bran, they could have the unknown soldiers who fought for the kings – all Sorcha wanted was her brother. Corbies swung their lazy way downwards, circling the still bodies and pecking at them. In this form, Sorcha could hear what they called to one another; the obscene, delighted conversation made her long for her human form. She dared not transform, even now, so long after the battle – the handful of surviving Welshmen, enraged by the insult to Branwen's honor, by the Irish warriors' valor, by the difficult battle, by the gods, by rogue spirits, by who only knew what, had already put to death most of the local women and children. And so she, terrified that she would meet the same fate, was forced to listen in horror to the corbies' banter.

Two in particular seemed to follow her about the battlefield. As she struggled to find her brother in the fading light, the dark birds hopped about, pecking at bodies, perversely trying to find a live warrior to consume.

"The warm ones are still too mobile," one complained. "That one almost hit me as he swatted at me!"

The other chuckled. "Stay clear of the hands, then, my dull-witted friend. At least we shan't be hungry again for a long, long time. Such a feast!"

"And already others on the way to take advantage of it," the first grumbled. It hopped onto the chest of a warrior beside Sorcha, tried to pluck out an eye, and screeched in outrage when Sorcha turned and snapped at the corbie. "Hey, now, leave be! Everyone has to eat!"

She ignored him, and continued to look for her brother. The sun had faded completely; in the dark, Sorcha strove to catch a glimpse of golden hair, hoping to find her brother that way. The effort seemed to be in vain – by and large, warriors were either helmeted or their hair had darkened with sweat and blood. Still, she managed to find a few golden-haired men, and some still living. None were her brother, but she paused anyway, to pay her respects. One man, his breath rattling in his throat, blinked up at her in awe when she stopped beside him. Agitated, his tongue flitted out to wet cracked lips, and he made as if to speak; Sorcha quickly dipped her head down to hear him.

"What brings you here, daughter of Medb – a love of battle in so gentle a creature? Get you off to the woods, fawn, before the Welsh return –" his voice wheezed out, creaking, and finally broke. The corbies fluttered closer, and Sorcha, out of respect for the mortal and in defiance of the carrion birds, laid herself down beside the man, resting her head on his torso, below the deep wounds on his chest. He calmed beneath her, his voice rasping but slower, and a trembling hand moved to rest heavily on her neck.

He wasn't her brother. She hadn't found the once-brilliant deer-man who shared her blood – but she'd searched the battlefield and hadn't caught a glimpse of him, though Sorcha had found one of his distinctive throwing spears, stuck fast in the gut of a dead man. Her brother had been here, but she didn't know that he was now. Maybe he lived, and had dragged himself off into the woods – if he had managed to shift, to become a stag again, then he would be healed. If not, he was likely dead, and she could do nothing for him. This man, though, this reverent mortal, was calmed by her presence, left unsullied by the corbies, while she remained with him. Even now, she could hear his breath grow weaker, the sluggish pulse of his heart becoming fainter. The hand on her neck convulsed; he gasped beneath her; then he went limp. She stayed, her head upon his cooling body, waiting for the broody, muttering corbies to move on. Once they had, she stood again, and pulled the tattered remains of a cloak – his? some other man's? she didn't know, and didn't know who'd bother wearing a cape in battle, anyway – over him before picking her way across the field again.

The same two corbies from earlier muttered darkly about her, the "senseless doe that meddled", when a third swooped in to land beside them. Sorcha's ear flicked in their direction, and she listened with growing interest to their conversation.

"There's another body, just within the wood – fresh! Warm, not dead. Perfect. Armored, but we can work around that, hey?" The newcomer laughed.

The other two joined in, excited. "And what has you so eager to share? 's not like you to pass up a dinner you could have for yourself."

"Oh, this one's big, too much for me, even for days – the meat would spoil. And such meat! He looks to have been in his prime, this one. Almost a shame, really."

"Pitying your meal, Alan?"

"No! No! And this one will be useful for more than a meal – fine hair, he's got, fine light hair – I'll line my nest with it, see if I don't. Nice gold hair. Attract a female, keep me warm."

Gold hair? Sorcha stared at the corbies, listening intently.

"Still alive, you say?" The first two corbies sound as interested as Sorcha.

"Still blinking bonny blue eyes and breathing, at any rate. 'M not entirely sure he's all there," says the newcomer, ducking his head to rap at his skull with a furled talon. "Certainly isn't moving much. Have at him, do you think?"

Blue eyes, gold hair – a common enough combination, Sorcha reminds herself. But it could be her brother, and her heart beats harder, eagerly, hopefully.

The corbies muttered amongst themselves for a moment more, and then they shrugged their wings and sprung up above the field, winging straight toward the woods. Sorcha bounded after them, as fast and fleet as she could be amongst the tangled bodies and slicked grass and mud. She had to keep them in her sight – those three, not the hundreds of others that dipped down or shot up to and from the field. Panicking at the thought of losing the corbies as they entered the wood, of losing her chance to find her brother, she put on an extra burst of speed as she reached the tree-line and realized she oughtn't of, for she slid and slammed into a tree. Dazed, she staggered back to her feet. Her vision darkened momentarily, the night pitch black before it became muted grey again, and Sorcha heard corbies cackle at her plight.

But the three before her – where were they?

She darted into the woods, swift but more alert, straining to hear the carrion birds. With relief, she heard them not too far ahead. She breached the clearing a few heartbeats later and stopped at the edge of it, staring agape at the fallen figure that lay in the glade.

He wasn't her brother. Despair and uncertainty beat at her, and she nearly wilted. But this man had to be one of her kind – Kindred, if not a shape-shifter. His hair was lighter than her brother's, falling wildly about his shoulders and streaked with colors. She wondered why he wasn't helmeted, and then saw a well-wrought silver helm lay beside a shield, several feet from where he'd fallen in the dell. She stepped forward tentatively. His head turned towards her, his eyes piercing though unfocused – one blue iris was several shades darker than the other. He grimaced, and she thought he was reacting to her, but then his head turned again and she realized he was following the movements of the corbies circling him, watchful even as he faded. His hand gripped a bronze dagger, and she watched his shoulder tense as one of the corbies floated down, stretching its wings and talons in preparation for landing. The dagger flashed out, more quickly that Sorcha would have thought possible from the warrior's labored breathing and the weak motions he'd used when turning his head. The corbie cried out in shock, pushed backwards by the force of the blade and fatally wounded by it, and the warrior bared his teeth at the remaining birds.

Fierce, but fading, Sorcha thought. The attack had cost him dearly, she could tell – he panted, and his arm and the dagger in his hand lay draped across his chest where they'd slumped after the movement. He'd nicked himself with the blade, adding to an already painful and extensive catalogue of wounds: a nasty gash over the lighter eye; a deep puncture on his shoulder that looked like it came from an arrow; manifold bruises that probably came from rocks thrown by slings, or the edges of shields, which likely hid broken bones behind the discoloring; his knee twisted at an unnatural and awkward angle, and Sorcha could only wonder how he'd dragged himself so far from the battlefield. Mostly, he seemed to be dying by inches of blood loss, and he obviously knew it. Though he snarled defiantly at the birds, at death itself, his shoulder only twitched when they swooped nearer. He couldn't raise his arm again, and the remaining corbies cackled merrily as the warrior gnashed his teeth at them. A corbie landed on the warrior's shoulder, tauntingly close to his bared teeth, and screeched in his face. The warrior shuddered, but made no move to shake the corbie from him. Sorcha stepped back, preparing to flee, overwhelmed by the pervading sense of hopelessness and loss – for her brother, for the tribes of Mallolwch and Bran, for this last rebellious, dying warrior. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of wings and harsh breaths.

* * *

_Oro: Right, so, this probably needs a little explaining... a corbie is a crow or raven. Howbeit, I like both those birds, and didn't want to write them in as villains. So, for this story, they're corbies. _

_Also, this story is from a ballad with two versions. One has a happy ending; one doesn't. The second part of this will be the happy-ending version; it's optional. If you don't want to read it, you don't have to. This can be, to your mind, a separate (though significantly shorter) story._

_Sorcha is an Irish variant for Sarah. I try to provide a somewhat historically accurate feel to these stories, and Sarah for a pre-christian Ireland is a stretch. To be honest, so is Sorcha. That's why I've run rings around not saying Toby's name - there isn't a translation direct enough for me to be comfortable with it._

_A lot of the back-story to this - the battle, etc., - is based on the Mabinogion; it's the bit I haven't read yet (I'm working on it) so forgive me any mistakes I made._

_Hob: Farewell until part two!_


	5. The Corbies and the Doe II

_Stranger

* * *

The Corbies and the Doe_

* * *

_Mostly, he seemed to be dying by inches of blood loss, and he obviously knew it. Though he snarled defiantly at the birds, at death itself, his shoulder only twitched when they swooped nearer. He couldn't raise his arm again, and the remaining corbies cackled merrily as the warrior gnashed his teeth at them. A corbie landed on the warrior's shoulder, tauntingly close to his bared teeth, and screeched in his face. The warrior shuddered, but made no move to shake the corbie from him. Sorcha stepped back, preparing to flee, overwhelmed by the pervading sense of hopelessness and loss – for her brother, for the tribes of Mallolwch and Bran, for this last rebellious, dying warrior. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of wings and harsh breaths.

* * *

_

His breath soughed in and out of his lungs, and he stared as best he could at the thrashing bird perched on his chest. It had struck the corbie with lethal precision, knocking the scavenger away, and now it stood on him with its barred wings unfurled and screeched, furious. Jareth blinked, trying to bring the bird into better focus, but the silvery bird had to be Cadfael, the ornery gyrfalcon who sometimes flew for him.

Jareth was dizzy, and his sight hazy, but he managed to tear his eyes away from Cadfael and watch the corbie fly above the glen before turning sharply, headed back towards the battlefield. To his blurred eyes, two other dark shadows seemed to merge with the bird as it faded from sight.

His gaze dropped, and he saw… something. A blur, to him, but Cadfael seemed to be glaring at it. He squinted, hoping to see it more clearly. He rather thought it was a deer of some sort, most likely a doe, since he could see no antlers. Then again, he thought wryly, he could barely see the deer. He watched it for a moment, surprised it had hesitated so long with Cadfael shrieking angrily. Then it shocked him by stepping forward, away from the trees.

What was it with the wildlife here? First the damn corbies, which had always left him alone before as an ally of Bran, and now even a doe – now that she was closer he could see she had no antlers – approached him as he lay spread-eagle upon the ground. Cadfael hopped about on his chest, and one of the contrary falcon's talons caught the edge of the arrow wound and tugged. Jareth couldn't prevent the shout that emerged as he convulsed from the excruciating pain. Cadfael startled, and his talons clenched for a moment, tearing open more flesh. Jareth swore vilely and ordered the bird to fly, praying that Cadfael would listen. The ensuing rush of air meant, hopefully, that Cadfael had taken off to perch on a branch or hunt down that last corbie and not that he was attacking the doe. He heard Cadfael shriek and a corbie cackle and then… and then a velvety nose was pushing against his arm. Jareth's gaze snapped to focus on the doe, so close he could see her green eyes.

Green eyes?

Her form twisted and shifted, the deer's body melting away and reforming as a woman's. _Kindred_, he thought distantly. She spoke to him in the Kindred language, accented but understandable.

"Who – no, this isn't the time. How can I help?" There was a wealth of emotion in her voice, but Jareth was too exhausted to identify them, much less sort through them. When he answered, his voice was hoarse – from shouting? He'd shouted a lot today.

"Bring me my helmet and my shield – they're enchanted. So long as I wear them, I cannot die." _Hurry_, he thought and then wondered at it. He'd shucked the protection of armor and sorcery on purpose. He had wanted to die. What changed? Had the arrival of the carrion birds roused some lingering will to live? Or, more likely, had the Kindred woman's presence stirred his ever-present curiosity? Bran had taken him to task for his curiosity before – even just last week, as the soldiers amassed under Bran's orders, he'd been lectured for interfering with the chieftains because he'd wanted to know the root of the issue that brought them against Mallolwch and his people. Jareth admitted he might have meddled a little too much when he'd stirred Evnissyen into a murderous rage, but honestly…

His thoughts trailed off at the feel of soft, elegant hands lifting his head to replace the finely wrought leather helmet, elaborately embellished with silver. She laid his head down again and he heard her drag his shield over and nearly grinned. It was a good, solid shield, made of heavy wood, leather, and metal, and at times like these it could be almost prohibitively heavy. When he was at his strongest, his magic and strength working together, he could move the shield as though it were a scrap of fabric. Now… well, he could use it to pull himself to his feet, he supposed. Its weight would keep him steady.

He managed to stay silent as she extended his arm and fitted the shield to it, but he grunted as the blunt power of the enchantments fell over him. It was the price he paid to be so heavily armored, though gods only knew what his adviser, Didymus, would do to him if the old fox found him armed in anything lighter.

Jareth rolled to his side and muscled the shield upright before pulling himself up. A wave of pain and nausea hit him but the spells kept him from slipping any further towards death even if it didn't actually heal him any. Those wide green eyes watched him warily and he wondered if the woman would run. It seemed pointless now, but then, he could only imagine what the other Welsh warriors had done to any Irish person they could get their hands on. In her position, he probably wouldn't have stopped to help a wounded soldier.

"Don't suppose you know a healer," he said, resting heavily upon his shield.

She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn't answer, but then she responded. "Not any nearby. We're in for a trip, I'm afraid. Your – the army killed any healer that might have been here." He sighed but wasn't really surprised.

He heaved the shield up and carried it for a few steps before letting it fall back to the ground to rest his shoulder. The arrow wound burned, his knee wouldn't have supported him if not for the magic, and he was still dizzy from blood loss. Jareth swayed backwards, but the shield kept him up and then the woman was at his side, steadying him.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She frowned at him. "I asked first!"

That made him smile and he hauled the shield up again to walk into the forest, away from the battlefield. "No you didn't," he said. "You started to but decided that wasn't the highest priority."

She grumbled a bit and tugged lightly on his arm, angling him toward what felt like more level ground. He hoped she could see in the dark – he couldn't make out much more than colors, his owl eyes striving and failing to work as they usually did; he certainly couldn't see well enough to avoid brambles and underbrush.

"You start and maybe I'll tell you what I'm called," she said as they reached what had to be a deer path. The shield dropped again.

"Only what you're called? Sneaky creature. Ah, well. You may call me Jareth. Or your Majesty, if you'd prefer." He picked up his shield again and they resumed their shuffling journey.

She snorted at his, admittedly strained and somewhat forced, playfully arrogant tone. "Oh, look at you – king of your tuath, are you? Too bad you aren't at your hall, _your kingship_. One of Bran's under-kings, I assume." He grinned but didn't correct her.

"You still haven't answered," he pointed out after several quiet moments.

"What's the question?"

He turned his head and squinted at her. It didn't actually help him focus on her, but between the narrowed eyes, the bloody gash on his forehead, and the silver helmet, he knew he looked imposing. He also knew she hadn't forgotten the question; some sing-song quality of her reply gave him the feeling she was teasing him.

"What do I call you, woman?"

"Why would I tell you?"

"By the gods, I'm not asking for your _name_," he snapped, "just something to call you by." After telling her his name, he felt as though she'd strung him along.

"Hmm... You have a point," she muttered. He waited and she fell silent again.

"Are you or aren't you going to answer me?" he finally asked, exasperated.

"Oh. You can call me Sorcha, I suppose."

Her suddenly easy capitulation made him suspicious and he stopped to stare at her. She stared right back.

"Do you need a break? We've been walking for a while now."

He blinked as it clicked.

"I can keep going. So, what are you going to distract me with now?"

She started telling him riddles, which worked to keep him preoccupied until Cadfael landed on his shield with a muffled thump. The blasted bird was heavier than he looked.

Once Cadfael joined them, Sorcha asked him about falconry, which came naturally to him as the King of Raptors, though he didn't tell her as much. He started telling her stories about Cadfael's training and hunting, or rather, how little the pampered bird did of either. After what felt like minutes but was almost certainly much longer, Jareth found himself too short of breath to speak continuously, his lungs burning as he all but gasped for air. He tried to keep it from Sorcha, but she must have noticed, for she picked up the slack in the conversation and draped his arm over her shoulder to take some of his weight. He knew she meant well, but the move bruised his already battered pride and pulled at the arrow wound.

Sorcha tried jokes, hoping to make him smile, but they were too reliant on wordplay and dialect or dependent on local politics for him to find truly amusing, so she moved on to stories and songs and eventually gossip. Anything to fill the silence and give him something to focus on.

Eventually, she started telling him about her brother, a tall, golden-haired deer-man who'd fought for Mallolwch. Sorcha told him about how impulsive her brother was, how young and desperate to prove himself in battle and then she wondered aloud who, exactly, her brother was aiming to impress. She told Jareth how her brother made his own throwing spears and could rustle a ten head of cattle on his own, a feat he was rather proud of; she told him how he'd polished his sword, a double-edged weapon with a blade about as long as her forearm, and sharpened the points of the spear heads he'd made while chattering nervously before leaving a week ago to travel to Mallolwch's hall. She told him about how happy a child he'd been and how handsome a youth he was and beneath all her words he heard a nervousness that set him on edge.

"Why were you so close to the battleground, Sorcha?"

She turned her head away from him then, taking her time to gather her words. "I think you already know."

Jareth sucked in a breath to respond and felt he'd breathed in fire. "I need to rest." They stopped and Jareth leaned heavily against a tree as he gasped for breath, suddenly aware again of his exhaustion. Cadfael hopped from his shield to Sorcha's shoulder – Jareth watched her shift her shoulders a bit, trying to get used to the feel of the bird, and her whole body flinched when Cadfael started twitching his talons in irritation.

When woman and raptor had settled down, Jareth asked quietly, "Did you find him?"

Sorcha made a strange, strangled whimpering noise. "No. But… I didn't see him at the field. I'm hoping – " here her voice broke and she couldn't seem to continue.

"I bet he's looking for you, too. You'll find him, Sorcha." She nodded, but didn't say anything more, so Jareth didn't, either.

They needed to start walking again or he wouldn't be able to get moving. As they set off he thought the trees were growing farther apart, but they couldn't have crossed the forest, could they? They ought to have come across something living within the trees' shelter – but then, scavengers and predators would be enjoying a free meal far behind them and prey creatures would flee before the protective magicks that cloaked him. Regardless of what he thought, the trees spread out, no longer crowding close to each other and soon they reached the tree line.

The sky lightened as they lingered. Jareth knew they ought to keep moving – Sorcha cajoled him, encouraged him, to step from the forest and into the field, telling him of the near-by esker. Cadfael, the brat, got impatient, screamed, and flew ahead. He just couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability, despite his armor, which urged him to stay amongst the trees. Aware of how foolish he was being, he allowed Sorcha to coax him away and towards the esker.

Cadfael wheeled overhead, a grey streak in the dawn, as Jareth and Sorcha approached the foot of a hill where they'd find a path up to the esker. Jareth felt his hair stand on end to see someone sitting at the base of the path, a large lump of something beside them that may have been a rock or a beast. He didn't relax when they drew close enough for him to see that it was an old woman and her cow beside the path.

Sorcha called out a cautious greeting and Cadfael swooped in to land atop the cow.

The stranger expressed surprise at seeing other travelers so early, and Sorcha replied that they'd been travelling through the night before enquiring how the lady came to be there with her cow.

"I meant to take it down to Mallolwch's hall as a gift for Branwen," the woman said. "But a youth passed by me late last night and told me that I ought turn around and return home, for Mallolwch and Branwen both are dead, and all Mallolwch's allies, and the Welshmen still marauding on the other side of the forest."

Jareth heard Sorcha gasp and she asked, hopefully, if the woman could describe the youth. From what the other woman said, it certainly sounded like she had met with Sorcha's brother.

"If you should do me a favor, I could supply us food," the lady said. "I am ancient; my joints are stiff and my hands shake. But if one of you were to milk the cow, we'd surely have enough to break our fast." Sorcha agreed and the lady brought out a cup; the first time she'd filled it, Sorcha passed the cup to the woman; the second, to Jareth, who sniffed it suspiciously before draining it quickly; the third time, Sorcha drank the milk herself.

By then, the sun had well and truly risen and Jareth mentioned that they ought to be going. He lifted his shield and was surprised to find it didn't seem as heavy; he thought, _perhaps I had been hungrier than I realized_. Sorcha, too, was looking much better – now that she knew her brother was headed home, she was of good cheer, all smiles and laughing eyes. Sorcha asked the old woman where she was going and invited her to join them on their journey, as she was headed in the same direction. The lady's smiling acceptance had the hairs at the back of Jareth's neck quivering, but Cadfael took her in stride and the bird was an excellent judge of security.

Miles passed them by and Jareth wondered at how Sorcha could still be walking, much less striding briskly, after her long trek to find her brother. She seemed to be moving on no sleep, milk, and a positive attitude.

When they spoke, their words were to the point and quick to fall aside in favor of the humming, restful calm that had fallen between the travelers. They stopped around noon, Jareth sprawling across the grassy hillside of the esker while Sorcha and the old woman sat upon the gravelly road itself. Cadfael darted to the ground and, surprisingly, returned to Jareth with his catch. He turned to the women and offered it to them, but, as they pointed out, they had no fire to cook it on and Sorcha had no desire to skin the creature, so unless Jareth wanted to do it himself and eat it raw, they'd stick to milk. Jareth shrugged and tossed the carcass back to Cadfael, who ripped into it with greedy delight.

Sorcha stepped off the gravel of the esker to kneel on the grass beside him. "Here," she said, offering him the clay cup. He took it carefully and drank the milk slowly this time. Sorcha watched him closely and only took the cup once he'd emptied it.

They set off again, Cadfael nestled on the cow's back, asleep and overfull from his meal, Sorcha and Jareth walking side-by-side, the old lady just ahead of them. She'd given them no name to call her by and Jareth, overcautious, didn't request one. They pass by a few other travelers, but no large groups and no brigands. He ought to be grateful for the slow pace and peaceful journey, but something skittered along the edge of his awareness, like the feeling of air displaced by birds' wings, making him jumpy and on edge. His hand gripped the shield straps tightly and he wished he hadn't lost his sword and spears. At this point, even a small knife would set him more at ease.

His vision was clearing up, though, and the pain faded to a dull throb. Jareth glanced down at his knee, sure the bone would be peeking through muscle and skin, but it doesn't look as bad as he thought. The joint is more in line and though walking it makes it ache until his teeth grind, the skin is unbroken and with every step he takes the wound fades into numbness. He chalked it up to how long they've been walking, since his shoulder also seemed to be less sensitive.

Sorcha started teaching him a new song and Jareth forgot what had him so preoccupied, though the nagging feeling remained.

By late afternoon, when he couldn't feel his legs at all, Jareth marveled at the woman's and Sorcha's stamina. He heartily wished to shuck his armor and take his owl form if only to rest his legs. He shook from exhaustion and sweat dampened his torn tunic. A light rain fell, off and on, and when it did he was glad for the soothing coolness of it. They'd passed bogs and rivers, forests and meadows, grazing cattle and far-away hill forts. He wondered how much farther Sorcha planned to continue before they stopped for another break. It might have galled him to let her lead if he wasn't exhausted and in unfamiliar land.

Sorcha conversed with the old woman while Jareth watched Cadfael glide lazily overhead. The bird twitched his wings to catch currents, flapping only when he absolutely had to, and Jareth considered how easy it would be to join him on the wind – and how soon he'd bleed out, he reminded himself. Just because he couldn't feel the wounds didn't mean they weren't still there and though the armor kept him from bleeding to death it hadn't healed him. He'd need time, rest, and a healer before he could even consider shifting again.

Then the sun began to set and the women paused at the base of a hill where the esker came close to level ground, much like the path they'd taken earlier, staring at Jareth expectantly. Jareth stared right back, mostly at Sorcha.

"Well?" Sorcha asked.

He kept staring without answering. The old lady laughed and he turned his gaze on her and startled. She'd called herself ancient, and as well as he could see in the morning he'd believed she'd appeared so, but now she looked to be only a little past the her prime, retaining the dark hair and strong back of her youth though carrying also streaks of grey in her hair and laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. He glanced between the two women and saw two pairs of mirthful eyes, one green and the other black, watching him work himself up. Jareth forced himself to take a deep breath and calm himself.

"We part here," Sorcha said, taking pity on him. "But this kind lady has offered us a last meal before she takes her cow and leaves, and I think we ought to accept." Jareth muttered an assenting reply and turned to look for Cadfael in the wind, leaving the women to their laughing. He could hear the women and he could hear Cadfael's wings against the wind and he could hear more wings, distant and muted, unsettling him further as he couldn't pinpoint the location or even direction of the ghostly sounds.

This time the woman brought him the wooden cup and offered it to him. He took it hesitantly but drank deeply, watching this woman with her raven-dark eyes. He'd only just finished the milk and was about to hand her the cup when she told him of Bran's fate and legacy across the sea. Jareth froze, eyes wide, but the woman only smiled and took the cup from him.

He sat heavily and Cadfael swooped low to perch on his shoulder. Sorcha came and told him they'd spend the night here along the esker and set off again in the morning for the last few hours of walking to her home and brother. Jareth nodded in agreement, more than happy to rest, and they said their farewells to their fellow traveler. Even Cadfael shrieked as she left, and a chorus of corbies responded in turn, apparently hidden amongst the grass of the hill.

When she left, Sorcha started telling him even more about her brother and her home, but Jareth just listened and watched in the direction the lady journeyed. He realized belatedly that he felt no pain, that his knee bent properly and that the arrow wound had healed over along with the shallow cut on his wrist. Jareth heard the phantom wings again just before his owl-sharp eyes caught sight of three corbies riding the wind in the distance, cackling their muted but unmistakable chatter.

* * *

_Hob: The second half!_

_Oro: And not at all like the original happy ending. The ballad retold here is The Twa Corbies and The Three Ravens, two very similar folk ballads. _

_Quill: Both original endings has the knight die. _

_Hob: I don't like that ending._

_Oro: Yes, well, anyway, I have to thank Reader in the Corner, whose review made me think a little more about the corbies and took the story in a different direction... Which is why I have muddled up the Mabinogian with The Tain Bo Cuailnge, though there's much less of the latter than the former. More a homage than a muddling, I suppose._

_Hob: I want to write something funny now!_

_Quill: That's my job! Anyway, she doesn't own sh-_

_Oro: Right, right, we'll see you soon with a much more humorous retelling of another ballad!_


	6. The Fox and the Crow

_Stranger_

* * *

_The Fox and the Crow_

* * *

There once was a great gathering of the Fey beneath the fairie hill, a festival and banquet that would last for three days: the day before the summer solstice, when the length of the day grew longer still; the blessed day of the solstice itself, when the length of the day was longest; and the day after, when the length of the night began to grow and would eventually overtake the length of the day, for time and nature are cyclical and balanced, and the Fey, as so many other do, marked their calendars by such transitions within the cycle. Well, it was to be a merry feast, the fairie hill filled to overflowing with guests, food, drink, music, and laughter. With such ambitions, the fairies were quick to invite their neighbors, and their neighbors' neighbors, and even those beyond their neighbors' neighbors, so that no one could be quite sure how many were invited or who exactly would attend. Beings of every race humans have names for – the elves, the Fey, the goblins, the dwarves, the diminutive fairies and the hulking Beasts – and even some that humans have no name for, known only collectively as the Wild Hunt, were invited to attend and bring their own guests, as well.

One of the Beasts, an earth-bound rock summoner, asked his friend to join him at the gathering. Now, some might find that strange, for the Beast was a fierce-looking creature, horned and fanged, covered in shaggy, rusty fur, while his friend was a young human woman, with dark hair and green eyes, and their friendship was indeed unlikely. But the Beast was gentle and kind, and the woman often lonely and aware that not everything is as it seems, and these traits made the Beast and the woman fast friends when they first met – and _that _was many years ago, so now their friendship was as solid as the boulders the Beast so often called.

The woman, curious by nature and thrilled to be asked, immediately agreed to accompany the Beast to the celebration. She dressed carefully, wearing a grey under-gown and a longer blue over-gown, though she decided to leave her apron. She braided her hair, tucking in the flowers her younger brother thoughtfully gave her, and, saying goodbye to her family, set off to meet the Beast.

They found each other easily enough and wandered leisurely down the path through the woods; though the woman was eager to see the gathering and join in the festivities, she and the Beast were glad for each others' company and made good use of the journey, for the woman could rarely leave her work so long and the Beast could rarely travel down to the human town to visit her. They chatted happily about the solstice celebration, about the mining job the Beast was considering, about the crops, the weather, the flowers that grew beside the path – anything that caught their attention. As the friends drew nearer to the fairie hill, they could hear the music and laughter within, already swelling and drifting through the woods. The Beast stopped for a moment, and looked to his friend; the woman paused and looked back. Very seriously, the Beast warned her not to speak if she could avoid it, for many powerful beings were attending, and some needed only the sound of a voice to ensnare a human while less powerful beings could use her voice to coax her name from her. Under no circumstances, the Beast cautioned, should she give anyone her name, for names had great power to many such folk. The woman gravely agreed, much to the Beast's relief, and they finished their journey in companionable silence.

It was not long until they reached the clearing around the fairie hill and the woman gaped to see so many strange and magic beings already mingling around the hill. Merchant stalls had been set up, selling flowers and jewelry and other such tokens, while musicians and other performers wandered through the crowd. Birds and winged folk wheeled about overhead and acrobats leapt along the ground in dazzling athletic displays; magic users of all sorts showed off for the crowd's entertainment and, the woman thought, their own. A particularly fine fiddler started up a jig and the Beast pulled her into an ungraceful shuffling dance, which composed mostly of laughing and swaying. Night fell as they danced together to many such songs.

They meandered through the clearing, taking in the sights and sounds of the gathering, when deep, resonant horns sounded, carrying with it a roll of thunder and the rumble of many hooves. The woman gasped, as did most of the crowd, and craned her head around to see where the noises came from and what they heralded. The Beast helpfully lifted her up upon his shoulder so that she could see better. Perched upon his shoulder, the woman saw finely dressed horse-mounted beings race into the clearing, following a russet-caped male running just before them. Hounds bayed and the horns sounded again; the crowd hurriedly parted before the Hunt, watching them chase down the male, who the woman rather suspected was one of the Huntsmen playing the part of a fox. She gasped as one of the Hunters drew back their bowstring and let fly an arrow, but the 'fox', clearly anticipating an attack, suddenly darted into the crowd and so the arrow missed him completely. She could see him from here, pushing his way through to the fairie hill; some of the Hunters shouted as cheers arose – the woman supposed the Fox, having reached the hill, was somehow safe and therefore no longer their quarry.

Trumpets sounded now and the gathering packed themselves into the fairie hill. The woman remained seated on the Beast's shoulder, glad to be lifted above the crush of people even if she did almost topple off when she and the Beast ducked through the entrance to the fairie hill. Someone gave a speech the woman could only barely hear and only understand in passing, for their accent was thick and their language antiquated. Still, the voice was pleasing to the ear and the sound of the words, if not their meaning, was enrapturing, captivating the gathering. One speech ended and another began, and this speaker's voice was still more beautiful, and the next speaker's yet again more beautiful, and the crowd listened to speaker after speaker as dawn approached, each voice more melodious and alluring than the last until the sheer beauty of the voices had moved the crowd to tears. Then all those voices lifted together to greet the dawn, so stunning that the woman forgot to breathe until her head felt light and their salute had half finished. The Beast, concerned for his friend, shuffled carefully out of the hill after the song ended and settled down to watch over her while she rested.

The woman had no intention of falling asleep, but she must have, for she woke at noon to another sublime song of salutation and the crackling sound of great bonfires. The Beast, seeing her stir, offered her a flask of water and a hunk of bread, which she gratefully accepted. She leaned against him as she ate, listening to the last strains of the midday song. After it ended, there was a lull where every small noise seemed amplified, every motion exaggerated, until one lone, brave piper began to play and the spell broke.

It was about then that the woman saw the Fox again, giving a demonstration of swordplay with another from the Hunt. The Fox was still in russet, she noticed, though he was no longer cloaked; even amongst the otherworldly host she thought his garments stood out, for he wore a tight, sleeveless leather vest that stopped above his waist and what appeared to be hose but couldn't be, for they were sewn together and not tied to his belt. His leather was dyed many shades of red and embroidered with gold or possibly it was gold wire, sewn to the leather – she had seen stranger things here – and the intricate designs were repeated on the heavy armlets he wore. She marveled at his strange attire almost as much as his sword skills, for he moved fluidly and with confidence during the mock fight. His blade flashed, and she thought the same design from his armlets and vest were etched upon his sword – she wondered if it was a mark of class, rank within the Hunt, or perhaps family affiliation. She watched until the end of the display, when the Fox disarmed his opponent with a grin and bowed audaciously to the crowd; the woman cheered for him, along with the other watchers, and thought perhaps his eyes flickered her way though she quickly dismissed the thought.

She and the Beast ambled back into the fairie hill, much less crowded now that entertainment had dispersed through the hill and the surrounding clearing; they made their way to the faerie queen and her consort and paid their respects, the Beast with a bow and many words of thanks, the woman with a deep curtsy and a bright smile. As they moved away, the Beast caught sight of one of his kin, and quickly saw two more, and eagerly approached them to introduce his friend to his family, his aunt and two cousins. They were very welcoming, and understood the woman's necessary muteness, and they kept the friends' attention for the afternoon and much of the night.

The woman's attention waned as the Beasts talked of family matters and rock-summoning business and it was during this period of distraction that a rather strange feeling crept over her: the hair at the back of her neck and along her arms stood straight up and she shivered, startled. The Beasts either hadn't noticed the feeling or hadn't minded, but the woman couldn't help looking for what could have caused her unusual reaction. Her eyes skimmed over the faces of the crowd until they were caught on a pair of laughing, mismatched eyes – she had no sooner glanced upon them than another shiver began, and from the grin beneath those bewitching eyes, she assumed he knew her reaction and had, perhaps, purposefully provoked it. As quick as she'd found him, he disappeared, though she remained tense and alert.

Feeling uneasy now to remain standing by the entirely too visible Beasts, the woman motioned to her friend that she was going to walk around the gathering again. The Beast looked worried, so she smiled and patted his shoulder reassuringly before walking away with a wave.

Several times she shivered and met those laughing eyes again – she came to realize they belonged to a pale face with wild gold hair, and that the face and hair belonged to a Huntsman, and that the Huntsman was the Fox she'd marveled at before. She couldn't quite be sure how the revelation made her feel –flattery, that such a being noticed her; fear, that a Huntsman seemed to be hunting her; thrill, to be part of this bizarre game; or curiosity, about if he actually was following her and, if so, why? Perhaps it was a combination of several of these feelings, and a few more besides, but the cumulative effect was that the woman was wary but somehow also on the verge of laughing.

After a time, she lost track of the Fox and disappointedly assumed that he'd lost interest in their seeking game. She sighed and leaned against a tree, watching people by the light of the great bonfires. Eventually, she pulled herself up to sit upon a low branch, partially to rest and partially for a better view of the fascinating beings milling around the clearing.

A rumbling voice sounded from the base of the tree, so startling that the woman almost fell off her perch. It was the Fox, and she stared at him while he spoke amiably.

"Well," he said, "if it isn't the little laughing woman, who gave me such a merry chase all through the clearing! Won't you join me down here, laughing woman?"

She grinned at the Fox but shook her head and remained quiet. She gripped the branch tightly as she leaned forward to better hear what he said.

"And what drove you up a tree, laughing woman? It can't have been me, for you stopped looking for me long ago."

She wanted to tell him that she had continued looking long after she could no longer find him, but she bit her tongue and just shook her head.

"What now, laughing woman, won't you speak to me? I ask such simple questions and I yearn to hear your voice." When she remained quiet, he sighed deeply and leaned against her tree. "As companionable as this is," he mused, "I was looking forward to hearing what put the joy into your laughter."

At this, the woman felt guilty for disappointing him, so she tentatively slid off her perch and approached the Fox. He gazed at her quizzically, and she pointed to a magician giving a colorful display of magic.

"Is it magic that makes you laugh?"

She shook her head, frustrated, and cast her gaze about the crowd, looking for another example. She found one and drew the Fox's attention to a fiddler playing a reel.

"So it is the music that makes you laugh."

Again she shook her head, and this time pointed to the dancers around the fiddler. The Fox swept her up into an improvised dance and she laughed in surprise delight.

"Dancing, then – I see, dancing make you laugh," he said, grinning triumphantly. She shook her head and their dance slowed and finally stopped. The Fox frowned at her. She turned back to the crowd and pointed at two small children playing with a top, a lady greeting a friend, a dragon-like creature contentedly puffing smoke, a merchant passing a flower to elf man who in turn handed it to a blushing fairie, and to her friend the Beast where he stood in the distance with his family. The Beast seemed to sense her gaze, for he turned his shaggy head their way; the woman waved to him and he nodded a reply before turning his attention back to his family.

"Ah, with such a display, it must be that you laugh because other people are laughing and happy, too," said the Fox, absently stroking a hand down her back.

"Yes, exactly!" the woman replied and then froze.

The Fox laughed now, a predatory sound, before leaning down to murmur in her ear, "I am glad you are so generous with your laughter… Sarah."

* * *

_Hob_: Not what I had in mind...

_Oro_: Yes, we are bad, bad people, my muses and I. We offered to give you "humor" and "soon" and delivered neither.

_Quill_: I'm _trying_, damn it.

_Oro_: Yes, there's a humor story in the works, but it's difficult because I've never tried to write flirting before. Anyway...

_Hob_: This one is a retelling of Aesop's fable of the same name!

_Disclaimer_: Aesop's fable are public domain. Labyrinth, however...

_Oro_: Sic' em, Hob!

((thrashing of wings and a strangled squawking sound)


End file.
